


The Picture of William Graham

by garconne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Big Gay Love Story, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garconne/pseuds/garconne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I re-imagine <i>The Picture of Dorian Gray</i> as a love story about Hannibal Lecter, a painter, and his muse, William Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClockworkCourier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/gifts).



> Accompanying tumblr post/graphic [here](http://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/135831265178/so-excited-to-post-my-hannigramholidayexchange)!

 The rich fragrance of roses filled the studio as a light summer breeze stirred the trees in the garden, carrying the floral perfume through the open door. Standing before his canvas in the center of the room, Hannibal Lecter could hear the dim roar of London like the bourdon note of a distant organ. On a divan in the corner behind him sat Lord Jack Crawford, gazing at the incomplete full-length portrait before them. 

“It is your best work yet, Hannibal,” Jack remarked, taking a drag of his cigarette. “The best you have ever done. You must certainly send it to the gallery next year.” 

As Hannibal looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully captured in his art, a smile of pleasure crossed his face. But then he abruptly closed his eyes and sighed. 

“On the contrary, Jack, I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered. 

Jack regarded him curiously. “Not send it anywhere? Have you any reason? A portrait like this would set you far above all the artists in England.” 

Hannibal shook his head. “I don’t expect you to understand, Jack, but I really can’t exhibit it. Not this one.” 

He glanced back at his work as he spoke. The face upon the canvas seemed to pierce through his heart, tearing a new gash each time he looked. The young, rosy-cheeked man he had painted produced the same effect as he would if he were standing in the room with him. 

“I have put too much of myself into it,” he explained. “I will not bare my soul to the shallow, prying eyes of the world.” 

Jack laughed. “Too much of yourself? I really can’t see any resemblance.” 

“You misunderstand me, Jack. Of course I know perfectly well that William and I do not look alike . . .” 

He stopped short, realizing what he had said. 

“William? Is that his name?” Jack asked, standing and moving across the studio toward him. 

“It is. I did not intend to tell you.” 

“But why not?” 

“When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to anyone. I have grown to love secrecy. The commonest thing is delightful if one hides it. I suppose you find that foolish?” 

“Not at all,” Jack said, grinning. “You seem to forget that I’m married.” 

Both men laughed and stepped outside into the garden, settling in a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a laurel bush, surrounded by tremulous white daisies. 

“Explain to me why you won’t exhibit the picture, Hannibal. Tell me the real reason.” 

“I told you the real reason,” Hannibal said, crossing his legs and entwining his fingers on his lap. “Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. In this particular picture, I believe I have shown the secret of my own soul.” 

“And what secret is that?” Jack asked, sounding somewhat skeptical. 

Hannibal paused a moment, taking extra care with his words. 

“Not too long ago, I went to a party at Lady Du Maurier’s, and after about ten minutes in the room, I suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. I turned and saw William Graham for the first time.” 

He swallowed, recalling the moment and the way he’d felt weak at the knees. There was something in William’s face that made one trust him at once. He seemed pure, as though he had kept himself unspotted from the world. An odd feeling of terror had passed through Hannibal as he stood motionless in the crowded drawing room, his heart pounding as it was now. 

“I knew that I had come face to face with someone so fascinating who, if I allowed it to happen, might absorb my whole soul, my very art itself. It was like no other moment I’ve experienced before, and I had a strange feeling that fate brought me to that party that night.” 

Jack seemed intrigued. “Did you speak to him?” 

“Sometime later I did, when Lady Du Maurier introduced us, though we would have spoken without any introduction. I am sure of that. William even said so. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other.” 

He did not tell Jack about how much time he had spent with William in recent weeks. Nothing unmentionable had happened between them, yet he kept that to himself as though it were a closely guarded personal secret. 

“In some curious way, his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art,” Hannibal continued. “I see things differently, and I know the work I have done since I met William is the best work of my life. You remember that landscape of mine I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done, and while I was painting it, William sat beside me. He is never more present in my art than when no image of him is there. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colors.” 

“Well, now I must insist upon meeting this William Graham,” came Jack’s reply. 

Hannibal hesitated to respond; he supposed he had delayed that meeting as long as was possible. At that particular moment, his butler appeared in the garden. 

“Mr. William Graham is in the studio, sir,” he said. 

Jack laughed. “Fate at work once again!” 

*** 

They found William at the piano, already absorbed in new pages of Hannibal’s own music compositions. “Would you lend me these, Hannibal? They are brilliant; I want to learn them.” 

“That depends on how you sit today,” said Hannibal with a smirk. 

“I’m tired of sitting. Why should I need a life-size portrait of myself?” William muttered. 

When he turned and caught sight of Jack, he abruptly stood. “I beg your pardon, Hannibal, I didn’t know you had someone with you.” 

“This is Lord Jack Crawford, an old Oxford friend of mine.” 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graham,” said Jack, stepping forward and extending his hand. 

Hannibal watched his two friends exchanging pleasantries. It was as though a breath of fresh air filled the warm studio any time William entered. He was so wonderfully handsome, with his scarlet lips, cerulean eyes, and curled hair. Hannibal wondered if Jack could see in William a fraction of what he saw. 

As Hannibal turned to prepare his brushes and mix his colors, Jack began his goodbyes, but William asked him to stay. Though he did not let on, Hannibal was surprised at the request. He had looked forward to spending more time alone with William, but it seemed the feeling was not quite as mutual as he’d allowed himself to imagine. 

“Please do stay, Jack,” Hannibal said, gazing at the portrait. “I never listen well when I’m painting; it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. William, go to the platform, and don’t pay attention to what Lord Crawford says. He is a bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself.” 

William stepped up onto the dais. “Are you really a bad influence, Jack?” 

“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Graham. All influence is immoral.” 

“How so?” William asked, amused. 

“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He becomes an echo of someone else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. To realize one’s nature perfectly, that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves nowadays. The bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. And every impulse that we strive to strangle broods the mind and poisons us . . .” 

William swallowed as he listened to Jack speak, finding a bit more truth than he would have liked in the older man’s cynicism. 

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it,” Jack went on. “Resist it, and the soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden itself. Even you, Mr. Graham, must have had passions that made you afraid, thoughts that filled you with terror, and dreams whose memory might stain your cheek with shame—” 

“Stop,” William muttered. “You have fascinating thoughts, Jack, but I daresay you care more for your words than for your ideas. Let me have a few moments to think, or rather, to try not to.” 

William stood motionless, lost in thought. Jack had merely shot an arrow into the air, but it had hit the mark. Jack’s peculiar ideas had touched some secret chord within him that he now felt vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. This had been the opposite of what he’d expected when he asked Jack to stay; he had wanted a distraction from the present setting, and instead felt more revealed than usual as he stood on the platform in Hannibal’s studio. How much of it had Hannibal heard? Perhaps none, he seemed so fixed on his work. William hoped he had not been listening. 

When Hannibal only had the background left to finish, William wandered into the garden to smell some lilac blossoms, drinking in their perfume like wine. 

“You are wise to do that,” Jack remarked, catching up to him. “Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.” 

William smiled and regarded him cautiously, again both amused and startled by his words. He wondered if, in the short time they had known each other, Jack suspected anything unusual about his friendship with Hannibal. 

The two of them took a turn around the blooming garden as Jack advised William not to waste his youth. He seemed eager to impart his wisdom; William could only estimate how many others he’d trapped in conversation with spontaneous lessons. Still, some of his words resonated with him: _Live the wonderful life that is in you. Let nothing be lost on you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. With your personality, there is nothing you could not do._  

After some time, Hannibal appeared in the doorway and called them back to the studio. 

“It is quite finished,” he announced as they stepped inside. 

“I must congratulate you, Hannibal,” Jack said, examining the picture. “It is the finest portrait of modern times. William, come and look at yourself.” 

William stepped forward, coming around Jack and Hannibal. “Is it really finished?” 

As he looked over Hannibal’s work, William stood in wonder, seeing himself through the painter’s eyes. The sense of his own beauty came over him like a revelation. Until that moment, Hannibal’s compliments could have been thought of as merely the charming exaggeration of friendship. But the picture made them real, gave to every word a new weight, a weight that seemed to want to crush him. 

“Don’t you like it, William?” Hannibal asked at last. 

“It’s magnificent,” William answered softly without looking at him. “Am I really like that, Hannibal?” 

“You are just like that, dear William.” 

William’s cheeks went hot and Jack’s talk of youth came back to him. “Someday, I suppose, this picture will far surpass my own beauty. I shall grow old, but it will remain always young. If only it were the other way.” 

He had meant it in jest, but the humor was lost when he spoke.


	2. Chapter 2

Some weeks later, William and Hannibal crossed paths again at a party at the Verger Estate, hosted by Lady Margot Verger, a single woman of high standing and wealth. Her father had invested heavily in American pork-packing, and his only son had died in a hunting accident, leaving Margot to inherit the land when she eventually married—and she saw no shortage of hopeful suitors. 

It was a windy summer day, and at a lull in conversation, William had been idly watching the tremulous bushes dance, throwing their blossoms ’round in excitement, when he caught sight of Hannibal across the courtyard. He was delighted to see a friendly face, yet oddly anxious. 

“I almost wrote to you to see if you were coming today,” Hannibal said, approaching him. 

“I am happy to be a pleasant surprise.” 

“The picture arrived in one piece, I assume?” 

“Oh, yes. Do forgive me, Hannibal. I should have written to you when it did. The frame you designed is wonderful.” 

Hannibal nodded. “I’m glad you like it.” 

“I love it,” William replied, flushing at his own boldness. 

The two of them started to walk together, following the sloped path down to the Verger gardens. 

“Jack Crawford tells me the two of you have been spending time together,” Hannibal remarked. 

“Yes, he and I have attended the theatre together a few times now. And I met his wife, Lady Bella; we were in her box at the opera just last week. A smart and charming woman. But Jack has such a curious way of talking, doesn’t he? I can never decide if he’s maddening or inspiring.” 

“Jack would probably say it’s only possible to be both or neither,” Hannibal replied with a smile. 

William nodded. “That he would.” 

“Tell me, William, how would you describe me? Am I both or neither?” 

They paused before some rose bushes and regarded each other. Strands of Hannibal’s sandy-colored hair wavered beneath his hat in the wind. William’s heart caught in his throat. 

“Both,” he began. “But you’re more than that. You find beauty and grace in the world where others don’t think to look. You evoke with one brushstroke what Jack hopes to imply in a hundred words.” 

Hannibal smiled at the observation, and then something else caught his attention. At that moment, Lady Margot and a friend were coming toward them from the opposite corner of the path. They had been taking a turn around the garden, arms linked under their parasols. William had not formally met the second woman, though he knew the two of them were said to be as inseparable as sisters. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Graham, Mr. Lecter,” Margot said in greeting, and the two men bowed. 

“You host the best party in London, as usual, Lady Margot,” Hannibal remarked. “And Lady Alana, how wonderful to see you again after so long.” 

“Wonderful indeed, Hannibal,” Alana replied. “It’s been too long. And Mr. Graham, it’s lovely to meet you.” 

“Perfectly charmed,” he said. 

“Alana’s father, Doctor Harold Bloom, was one of my mentors when I first began medical school,” Hannibal explained to William. “One of the brightest men and best doctors I ever met.” 

Alana smiled. “He speaks of you the same way. I’ll give him your best. You are still painting now?” 

“He is,” William cut in. “As a matter of fact, he’s just finished a stunning portrait.” 

He stopped short of admitting the work was of him, feeling suddenly odd about it. Hannibal simply smiled and offered a humble bow. 

“How wonderful,” Margot said. “I’ll never forget your garden scene from last year’s exhibition. I felt as though I could smell the roses when I stood in front of it.” 

“You are far too kind as always, Margot.” 

“Do come inside for tea, if the two of you have the time,” she said, before she and Alana made their goodbyes and glided down the path. 

Hannibal and William resumed their walk back toward the courtyard, quietly for a few paces, until William spoke again. 

“Hannibal, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you since we met. I hope you won’t mind.” 

“Not in the least. Please ask me about anything on your mind.” 

“Why is it that you left the medical profession? I’ve only ever heard that you were an exceptional apprentice.” 

“Then you’ve only spoken to people who omitted the end of the story. I made a mistake that cost a patient his life. I couldn’t bear it, and I knew then I wasn’t meant for that line of work. I transferred my passion for anatomy into painting.” 

“Well, you are truly the most exceptional artist I’ve ever known,” William said, stunned by Hannibal’s admission. 

“And you are an exceptional person, William,” said Hannibal, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another.” 

“You are certainly a dear friend,” William replied, pressing his hand. “No one has ever understood me as you have.” 

There was more William wished to ask, much more, but he simply smiled as they started inside for tea. Hannibal’s words lingered in his mind for the rest of the day. 

*** 

Rain was coming down in sheets that night when Hannibal’s reading was interrupted by a knock at the door. He got up, having already relieved his butler for the night, and was alarmed to find William there at such a late hour, his coat and hat soaked through. 

“My god, has something happened?” 

“No, nothing of the sort. I simply needed some fresh air and got caught in the storm,” he said, taking off his hat and following Hannibal into his library. 

“Let me get you dry coat,” Hannibal offered, but William’s mind was elsewhere. 

“Actually, that isn’t true,” William went on with a sigh, rubbing his face. “I deliberately came here. I wanted to ask you something.” 

Hannibal nodded, his heart thundering in his ears. William seemed oddly nervous and out of sorts, and there was liquor on his breath. 

“I was thinking of something Jack told me recently,” William started. “He said you had refused to exhibit the portrait of me, and that if I wanted to have an interesting conversation, I ought to ask you why. Why wouldn’t you exhibit it, Hannibal?” 

Hannibal swallowed and rested his hands in his pockets. 

“Ever since we met, William, I have felt that you were made to be worshiped. I grew more and more absorbed in you each time we spoke. As I worked on the portrait of you, every flake and color seemed to reveal my secret. I grew certain viewers would know my adoration of you. I felt that I had put too much of myself into it. I resolved never to have it exhibited; I wouldn’t put my heart under the microscope.” 

Hannibal stepped closer, meeting William’s expectant gaze. 

“But, dear William,” he went on, far softer than before, “does anything I’ve said surprise you?” 

William let out strangled breath and seized Hannibal by the shoulders, pulling him swiftly forward and pressing his lips to his own. Hannibal instantly responded in kind, realizing the moment he had longed for but never allowed himself to genuinely expect. But then, just as abruptly as William had initiated it, he pulled away. 

“I don’t know what I was—” he stammered, unable to finish, looking perfectly aghast. 

“William,” Hannibal started, calmly. “You need not regret anything. But if you do, we need never speak of this again.” 

“Good,” came his quick response. “We never had this conversation. I was never here.” 

With that, William turned on his heel, took up his hat and was gone. Hannibal stood frozen in place, the entire visit feeling acutely surreal. His heart sank when he considered that their friendship would likely be forever changed. He idly thought of chasing after him, but William would surely have hailed a hansom by now. He trailed his finger across his mouth and recalled the kiss. The kiss he would remember for a thousand lifetimes. 

All the way home William shook and rubbed his hands over his face, bewildered by his own actions, caught somewhere between shame and elation. He blamed Jack, in part. His strange way of thinking had stuck with him. Healing the soul with the senses, not wasting his youth… Hannibal had been right about Jack being a bad influence. No one would ever know, though; he trusted Hannibal with the secret. He had seemed unsurprised by the development, after all. 

Arriving at home, William passed through the library and Hannibal’s portrait nearly startled him. It had taken on a whole new significance. In the dim light of the room, the face appeared to be a little changed. There seemed to be a new touch of cruelty in the mouth. He turned away, thinking he must be going mad, and took up a lamp that he held as he looked more closely at the picture. There was no doubt that the expression had altered; the lips had somehow warped and grown darker. His heart pounded in his ears; suddenly he recalled what he’d said in Hannibal’s studio—his failed joke about how the picture should grow old instead of himself. But he knew such things were impossible; it seemed monstrous even to think of them. Yet it was an unsettling coincidence that the mouth was the thing to have altered on the very night he’d made such a bold move. He drew a large screen in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. As it had once seemed to Hannibal to reveal his deepest secret, it now seemed to reveal his own. 

*** 

As thunder rolled through the night sky, Margot Verger put her bare feet up on her plush settee as Alana Bloom let down her dark hair before a tall, silver-framed mirror. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Alana asked, joining her on the sofa and taking her feet into her lap so that she could massage them. 

“I just have many things on my mind, dear. That feels divine.” 

“Good. Anything bothering you?” 

Margot hesitated a moment before she spoke. 

“Were you fond of any men we spoke with at the party today?” she asked, a bit too casually. 

Alana sighed. “Must we talk about this now?” 

“Well, we must talk sometime. Just listen to me before you pout like that. You know that I must be married. And I must have children. I cannot avoid it. I expect my husband to be perfectly oblivious of me most of the time, as all men are, but when we entertain and go out together, I’ll have to be at his side. It would pain me to see you standing alone in the crowd. If you were married at same time—” 

“I don’t want to be married,” Alana interrupted. “I do not want to be chained to a man—any man.” 

Margot sat up and took Alana’s hands. “Think of it, Alana. With our husbands’ names, we could find more freedom than we have even now.” 

“More freedom? We disappear into vacant rooms together and they call us _sisters_ , for god’s sake!” 

The two women laughed, and Margot touched Alana’s cheek. 

“I know it’s not what you want. But what better arrangement can you propose?” 

Alana thought for a moment and then smiled. 

“Suppose we married two men who were friends and the four of us lived here,” Alana said with a tone that made it clear she recognized it as an elaborate fantasy. “In that arrangement, you could convince me.” 

Margot sighed and pulled Alana into a warm embrace, kissing her and stroking her hair. 

“If only we knew two men who were in love as we are,” Margot remarked after some time, half in jest. 

“If only,” Alana said with a small, dreamy laugh that was overtaken by a yawn. “If men ever truly love anything at all.” 

Margot sighed and shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Hmm. I have a few ideas.”


	3. Chapter 3

Just over a week had passed when William received in the mail a dinner invitation from Hannibal. His cheeks went hot at the sight of it, but he was surprised to find that he actually felt compelled to go—to see him again. 

When the night came, he arrived exquisitely dressed and wearing a large buttonhole of violets. His forehead was throbbing with maddened nerves, but his manner as he was ushered into the drawing room was as easy and graceful as ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at ease as when one has to play a part, he mused. Certainly no one looking at him that night could have believed that he had, in a sudden fit of drunken passion, kissed the man who was his closest friend. 

As he joined the gathering and could hear Jack’s slow melodic voice lending charm to some half-sincere new theory, a smile curved his lips. 

“Ah, William,” Jack greeted warmly. “Do take a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of pleasure; it is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want?” 

“Some might call it a guilty pleasure,” William observed. 

Jack shook his finger as he exhaled a cloud. “Pleasure is the one thing I never feel guilty about.” 

Jack’s wit elicited a curious chuckle from the crowd around him. Sparing a subtle glance around the room, William caught sight of the host in the opposite corner, caught up in a conversation with Lady Beverly Katz, the young wife of an ambassador. He swallowed and diverted his gaze. At that moment, he realized Jack had still been educating the group, but he had missed every word. 

At dinner, he could scarcely eat anything and started to regret having come. Each time he caught sight of Hannibal at the end of the table, his head seemed to spin. Seated across from him, Jack took notice, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner. 

“William,” Jack said at last. “What is the matter with you tonight? You are quite out of sorts.”

“I believe he is in love,” Lady Bella remarked from beside Jack. “What else can be said for so little an appetite.” 

William flushed at her words, feeling certain that Hannibal had heard her and was looking on. He imagined how he must look from Hannibal’s perspective and could feel his gaze on his scarlet ear. 

“It is only women who lose their appetites to love, my dear,” Jack remarked. 

At that, Lord Abel Gideon, an old aristocrat, chimed in. “Lord Crawford, I never tire of all your fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories.” 

“And those are?” Jack inquired, shifting forward in interest. 

“Oh, your theories about life, about love, about pleasure.” 

“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered. “Pleasure is nature’s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good, we are not always happy.” 

“But what do you mean by good?” Hannibal asked, drawing glances from around the table. 

“Yes,” echoed William. “What do you mean by good, Jack?” 

“To be good is to be in harmony with oneself,” he replied, touching the thin stem of his wine glass. “Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own life—that is the most important thing. The lives of one’s neighbors are not one’s concern. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of any culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality.” 

“But surely if one lives merely for oneself, one pays a price for doing so,” Bella challenged. 

Jack gave his wife a solemn nod. “Yes, we are terribly overcharged for everything nowadays.” 

A polite chuckle passed around the table, and for the first time that evening, William locked eyes with Hannibal. As people started to get up, William stood, but was suddenly dizzy, steadying himself on his chair. 

“My god, Jack, look at him; he’s going to faint,” came Bella’s concern. 

“Are you unwell, William?” Jack remarked. “You must come and see my doctor tomorrow.” 

“It is nothing,” William murmured. “I’m afraid I walked too far this morning.” 

Hannibal had overheard the exchange and appeared next to them. 

“William,” he started, sounding genuinely concerned, “are you alright?” 

William sighed, “I wish I knew . . .  I’m sure it will pass. Just a bit lightheaded.” 

“Shall I show you to a guest room?” Hannibal offered. “You’re welcome to lie down for a while.” 

William could barely look at him and felt a great weight on his chest, his ears burning hotter than before. Jack, Bella, and the others were still staring at him with worry. 

“Yes, certainly, that will do,” he relented. 

Hannibal led him down the hall to an unused bedroom and opened the door, waiting for William to step in. 

“I hope you will be well shortly,” he said, cordial as ever with no apparent expectations. 

Suddenly, William couldn’t let him walk away. 

“Will you come in?” he asked in a whisper. “Please?” 

Hannibal hesitated for a moment before he entered the room and shut the door behind them. 

“I cannot do it,” William muttered, shaking his head. “I cannot do this.” 

“What is it you cannot do, William?” 

“Pretend,” he answered with pain in his voice, stepping closer to him. “I can’t go on pretending that you’re merely a friend when every time I look at you . . . ” 

“If you don’t wish to stay, William—” 

Hannibal stopped short as William turned and seized his hands in his own. 

“Tell me you don’t regret it,” William pleaded. “Tell me you’re glad it happened. Tell me you’ve thought of it every day since, and that I’m not alone.” 

Hannibal looked stunned. 

“William,” he began, a smile warming his features. “I have thought of you every day since the first day we met. I am only really happy when I am with you. I am quite glad for what happened and most grateful you came tonight.” 

“I’d like to do it again, if that’s alright,” William said, his lips trembling as though he might cry. “I promise not to run off this time.” 

Hannibal took William’s face in his steady hands, rubbing his thumb across his cheek before he brought their lips together. William whined to feel his touch again and pressed his body to Hannibal’s. It was a proper kiss this time, and they lingered the way neither had dared to linger before. 

“You’ll have to get back to your guests,” William remembered, panting. “I will wait here.” 

Hannibal smiled and kissed his cheek as he left. He could scarcely think of anything else as he entertained his visitors for the remainder of the evening. When they had finally said their goodbyes, Hannibal stole down the hallway to the old guestroom, where he found William passed out on the large scarlet sofa, an open book resting on his chest, steadily rising and falling with his sleeping breath. He took up the book and placed it on a nearby table, and then sat next to him, gently taking his hand. William stirred and sat up to face him. 

“Everyone’s gone home,” Hannibal said. “I sent the servants to bed. We’re alone.” 

William smiled, and without hesitation, pulled Hannibal to his lips again, this time draping his leg across Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal caressed his thigh through the cream fabric of his trousers as he kissed him, and William seemed to quiver beneath his touch. 

“Hannibal,” he breathed, his chest heaving. 

Hannibal smiled, admiring him in the dim light of the room. “If I saw you every day forever, William, I would remember this time.” 

They stayed together in the guest room for hours, speaking by lamplight. Late into the night, they still lied facing each other on the sofa, their legs entwined. 

“How tragic it is,” William said after some time, “that something so wonderful as this must remain a closely guarded secret.” 

“I’m rather fond of secrets,” Hannibal mused. 

William raised his eyebrows. “Do you have many more?” 

“None as wonderful as this.” 

“This feels like some sort of extravagant dream,” William remarked. “Tell me you won’t vanish into thin air if I close my eyes.” 

“If I do, you’ll know it was because I experienced the most transcendent joy. Some people go their entire lives without knowing such happiness.” 

“Jack would say that most do.” 

“I’m inclined to agree. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” 

“I’d say we have him to thank for this, in an odd sense,” William admitted. “He showed me a new way of thinking about life. Had I not met him, I don’t know that I could have gathered the courage to kiss you at all.” 

“Then I am forever indebted to Jack.” 

Still smiling as he returned home that night, William experienced a harsh clap of reality as he entered his library. He knew that he would have to examine the portrait again. Ridiculous as it was to think that a sin could alter it, the notion weighed on his mind. Locking the door behind him, he eyed the screen that hid his secret as he stepped into the room. 

With a heavy sigh, he drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face. In an instant, what he had feared was perfectly true. The portrait had altered. He found himself gazing at it with a scientific interest; that such a change could have taken place was incredible to him. Was there some subtle affinity between the atoms that shaped themselves into form and color on the canvas and the soul within him? It seemed madness to think so, but there it hung before him, the fair skin more crudely warped than before. It couldn’t be mildew or pest eating the canvas—that much was clear, since still only his face and hands showed the change with no damage anywhere else. It might have appeared to a stranger to be a portrait of a sickly, aging man with a hideous skin affliction. 

He remembered, then, Jack’s words about how youth and beauty inevitably fade. Perhaps the picture had changed as an omen . . . or a lesson. Nothing wonderful could last forever, not even Hannibal’s artwork. 

As he drew the screen back into place, a dissonance weighed on his mind. Being with Hannibal the way he had been was not only considered a crime, but was to many an unforgivable trespass—hypocrites, undoubtedly, all of them, turning a blind eye only to the sins they personally enjoyed. Yet when he thought of Hannibal, no guilt tugged at his conscience. Indeed, he had found that the supposed sin he had done once with swift remorse, he could repeat many times, with joy. 

*** 

In weeks that followed, William and Hannibal routinely met at nightfall, when they could more easily avoid any witnesses. They didn’t dare pass an entire night together, lest anyone catch them leaving the same room come morning. 

Late one night, lying naked together in the smooth sheets of Hannibal’s bed after exhausting themselves, Hannibal ran his fingers through William’s soft curls and sighed. 

“This is what I always wanted, William. For both of us.” 

“It’s beautiful,” he responded against Hannibal’s chest. “Though I can’t help thinking that it’s only temporary. I think of it often, now.” 

He wondered if Hannibal thought him naive for being sad over such a thing. There was a tense silence for a few moments before he answered. 

“No single joy in this life is guaranteed to last,” came Hannibal’s comforting voice as he stroked William’s hair. “I am grateful for our time together; every day I am grateful. No matter what the future should bring, you will remain my soul’s greatest joy.” 

A single tear ran sideways across William’s nose as he lay motionless against his beloved. Hannibal had grown more dear to him than he ever thought possible. He desperately wished he could imagine a happy life for them, but everything he considered seemed a grand fantasy. 

“Perhaps if I got married I could hire you as my personal artist,” William mused with longing. “You could live with us, then.” 

“Though surely a woman would find it an odd arrangement? Particularly at my age?” 

William sighed. 

“It’s a nice thought, my dear,” Hannibal said gently. 

“A foolish one.” 

“Well, then here’s another. The two of us could leave together. We could travel to cities where no one knows our names. Paris, Madrid, Florence, Vilnius . . . I could paint anywhere, under an alias.” 

“Leave England?” William said, lifting his head to look up at Hannibal in the darkness. “And never return? Never see our friends again?” 

It sounded like a romantically tragic death of sorts. 

Hannibal only smiled. “Never mind if you don’t like the idea. Just a happy daydream of mine.” 

Incredible as it sounded, William was nonetheless touched to know that Hannibal, too, had imagined ways they might carry on their arrangement indefinitely. William moved up to kiss him again, and Hannibal wrapped his arms around him, running his fingers over his bare skin. 

“How many others like us do you suppose there are?” 

“Far more than anyone suspects,” Hannibal answered without hesitation. “Perhaps they’re having the same conversation we’ve just had.” 

“Perhaps, someday . . .” William started but stopped short. 

“Someday,” Hannibal agreed. 

“You really believe so?” 

“I feel certain of it. Maybe not our generation’s great grandchildren, or even theirs. But someday, I believe people will no longer have to hide.” 

“Another happy daydream,” William sighed, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s.


	4. Chapter 4

Summer rains gave way to autumn leaves, and a burst of chilled air had pricked up the hairs on William’s skin the morning he found cause to worry. Going through his mail, he smiled to find a letter from Hannibal, when he suddenly froze, his heart missing a beat. The seal had been broken and hastily repaired. Someone had seen it fit to look inside. Opening it with unsteady hands, he found that it was a simple dinner announcement. He could not mention it to his butler lest he appear to have something to conceal; he simply set it aside as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. 

It was such a small thing, but as days went on, the incident weighed on his mind. He fretted over the most trivial interactions, knowing that his relationship with Hannibal could send them both to prison if they were ever discovered—and that was only one possibility. He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a revealing letter or overheard a conversation. He grew exhausted of constantly being on guard, feeling as though he lived a double life. When he spoke of the letter to Hannibal, his quick dismissal of the issue only served to exacerbate his own worry. 

What’s more, Wiliam continued to see a greater change in his picture. The skin of the hands and face was now entirely mottled and warped, with vulgar red veins coming to the surface around his lips and hands. He thought of locking the painting away upstairs, where no one would ever go, but then the sudden absence might only be more suspicious. Instead, he kept his screen in front of it and kept the library door locked anytime he was away. 

When he found that he could not enjoy his time at Hannibal’s dinner party, he left early with barely a word to anyone, returning home and spending a restless night tortured by his own fears. Early the next morning as he wearily drank his chocolate, Hannibal was shown into the room. 

“I am glad to find you at home,” he said, stepping inside. “I passed a dreadful evening after you left so suddenly yesterday and then didn’t send any further word.” 

William sighed. “I’m sorry, Hannibal. I started to feel ill; I had to leave. I don’t know what’s come over me lately; I’m so nervous all the time . . . ” 

Hannibal stepped closer and placed his hand on William’s shoulder, but William gently eased away. 

“I’m sorry, please not right now.” 

“Whatever is troubling you, I hope you know you can speak to me. I am still your friend, William. Before all else.” 

“Whatever is troubling me?” William spat, incredulous, standing so suddenly that his little porcelain mug tumbled to the floor and broke in pieces. “Would you like to know? Move that screen aside, if you’re so curious!” 

Hannibal was still as a portrait for a moment and William quickly regretted his outburst. He waited with heavy breath as Hannibal wordlessly walked over and moved the screen aside to find the wretched thing concealed there. He stepped closer, examining the same changes in the skin that William had studied over and over. Turning back, there was a grave expression on his face. 

“What do you make of this, William?” 

“I do not know,” he admitted with bemusement. “I’ve come to think of it as some sort of reprisal for my trespasses. The happier I become, the more it seems to taunt me. I thought perhaps there was some mildew in the canvas, but you can plainly see it’s only my body changing; everything else is as pristine as the day you painted it. I’ve wondered time and again if it’s showing me the true horror of my soul.” 

“Oh, William, no. Is this what has been eating away at you?” 

Hannibal sounded strangely remorseful and shook his head before he went on, pacing the room. 

“I have never shared this with another person,” he began, an odd reluctance in his voice, “but, when I paint, I often like to mix something extra into my colors . . . In a picture of flowers, I might add rose oil, for instance. A boudoir scene might call for a drop of perfume, you see. But in yours . . . Well, in yours I wanted something different. Something more personal. I never thought it would change it so. When I came to tinting your skin, I had what I considered then a brilliant idea: to add my own blood to the mixture. I should have told you before, truly. I’m sorry this has troubled you . . . I’ll be happy to restore it.” 

William held Hannibal’s gaze after the explanation, transfixed by what he had just learned. And then he laughed—so loudly and so suddenly as to seem completely mad. He laughed until tears dripped from the corners of his eyes. 

“Too much of yourself! You told me you put _too much of yourself_ into it, you scoundrel!” 

“I meant every word of that!” Hannibal replied in defense, fighting a smile. 

William’s laughter subsided and he wiped his face, shaking his head. “To think of all the time I spent haunted by your strange experiment.” 

“Is this really what has been worrying you?” 

William sighed and shook his head. “No, no. Not just the picture. That was merely a daily reminder.” 

“What then?” he asked, adding in a hushed tone, “Is it about the letter?” 

“Yes, it’s about the _letter_ ,” William snapped, also lowering his voice. “Don’t you ever worry, Hannibal? I cannot shake the thought that we’ll be discovered and our lives will be ruined.” 

“I will not let that happen, William. If one or both of us were ever arrested, I would confess to everything and maintain your innocence about it all. I would tell them I blackmailed you into an arrangement you never wanted.” 

Hannibal’s words pierced William’s heart. He had clearly given it some thought, but he had never mentioned such a plan. 

“Hannibal,” he said, the name dropping from his lips like a sad prayer. “You must never. You must never claim any such thing. I would not let them drag your name through the mud.” 

The mood between them had become oppressively somber, as if someone had snuffed out the final candle on an altar. 

“Don’t you see?” William went on after what felt like a long silence. “The only way for us to save each other is to . . . Is to . . .” 

Hannibal’s eyes were glassy. “William, what are you saying?” 

“I am sorry, but I cannot go on as we have been,” William said, blinking heavy tears from his eyes. “Not anymore. I cannot live with this torment. I cannot continue to take this risk.” 

Hannibal looked like he might crumple to the floor and William had to suppress an urge to pull him into an embrace. 

“I am deeply sorry, William, to have become a source of pain for you. I will go. I only hope this isn’t our final goodbye. Your friendship means a great deal to me.” 

“I’m afraid it must be, for some time. But, Hannibal. Please know I do not regret it. I do not regret what we shared, nor will I ever forget.” 

Hannibal gave him a single, sad nod. “Please do have the picture sent to me and I’ll restore it for you.” 

With that, he turned softly on his heel and left. William sank into a chair and sobbed into his hands. He had never known greater heartbreak, or greater relief, in his entire life.


	5. Chapter 5

As Hannibal worked to restore the picture, he felt as though he were undoing the damage he had caused William, in some small way. It pained him to think that the portrait had become an omen looming over him all that time. As he carefully repainted the face, he wondered how long it would be before he found William’s cerulean eyes gazing back at him. He could not bear the loss, yet it seemed better than many other things that might have happened. Sometimes he’d visit William in his mind and lose himself in a happy daydream, recalling a warm smile or an eager embrace, or he’d work out an imaginary future conversation in his head. In respect for William’s wishes, he distanced himself from their shared social circle and resolved to spend some time away from London in warmer months. 

With the perfectly restored painting back on the wall in his library, William felt as if he’d leapt backward in time to the day he’d first received it and admired Hannibal’s gold frame. He returned to his regular hobbies with too much ease, laughing with old friends as if nothing had changed. As if he had not known what it was to love and be loved. Though they had never said the word, he had no doubt that Hannibal had loved him. He sometimes caught himself smiling about some conversation of theirs and would feel swiftly downcast upon recalling how long ago it had been. A few times, he thought he caught sight of Hannibal out and about and abruptly whirled around, only to startle a stranger. Jack occasionally remarked on how odd it was that Hannibal was suddenly so reclusive, and each time William feigned equal confusion before shifting to a new topic. 

Nearly a year would pass before the two saw each other again. 

Snow began to drop in thick, white blankets that made London seem eerily quiet and still, save for the biting winds that caught hats and bonnets ’round every corner. Anytime William saw two people huddled together for warmth, he thought of Hannibal. Something about the winter made him sentimental. A terrible absence hung over him even in happy times. 

When a warm sun had finally returned and everywhere the snow melted into tiny rivers, William learned in passing that Hannibal was off spending the spring and summer months in Paris. The news reopened an old wound within him, as he considered what could have been. He tortured himself by wondering if Hannibal would take a new lover there, and if he did, that he might decide not to return. He idly wished he had said goodbye, but there hadn’t been a word exchanged between them since the day he’d broken Hannibal’s heart and watched him walk quietly away. 

William passed an uneventful summer in London. A terrible and absurd absence hung over him even in happy times. One night at the theatre, he was quietly stunned to acknowledge that he found the young actress playing Rosalind most beautiful when she appeared disguised as a boy. Suppressing a smile, he tried to imagine what Hannibal would say. And then he caught himself hoping he’d have the opportunity to tell him, someday. 

The first leaves had begun to fall when William learned from Jack that Hannibal had returned to London. He had to avert his gaze as a mist of joy came to his eyes. He repeatedly considered turning up at Hannibal’s door, but the mere thought sent his head spinning. Perhaps they would cross paths at some event by chance, he hoped. And when he received an invitation to Bedelia Du Maurier’s party—the same place he had met Hannibal over a year before—he knew he was holding in his hand the perfect opportunity. 

*** 

William had never once been so miserably hopeful about the outcome of a dinner party. As he arrived and greeted Lady Bedelia, he was certain it would be impossible to relax until he knew if Hannibal had come or not. In the packed drawing room, his eyes darted around so quickly he started to feel dizzy. And then, from the doorway behind him, he heard Jack’s voice welcoming Hannibal to the party. 

When he caught sight of him at last, it was as though every fibre of William’s body was suddenly awake after a prolonged hibernation. Locking eyes with him, he made his way through the crowd and Hannibal came toward him, meeting him in the middle of the room. 

“I am so happy to see you here,” William said first, letting the words spill from his lips. 

“Likewise. I hoped you would come again. You look well.” 

William held his gaze for a moment, wanting to embrace him or drop to his knees. 

“Did your summer in Paris pass nicely?” he asked, unsure what else to say. 

Hannibal gave him a polite nod. “It was quite warm, sometimes excessively, and I painted a great deal. A refreshing change of scenery.” 

“I can imagine,” William remarked. 

“But I am glad to be home,” Hannibal added, holding his gaze.

The crowded room that had seemed to fade away from them suddenly came roaring back. Jack came by and greeted the two of them, and then by some stroke of grace was quickly distracted by another conversation. 

“Would you come up to the library with me?” William asked, returning his attention to Hannibal. “There’s . . . a book. A book I’ve wanted to show you for some time.” 

It was a clumsy excuse. Hannibal hesitated, glancing around the room full of guests. 

“Are you certain Lady Bedelia has a copy?” 

“Quite certain,” William affirmed. 

Hannibal smiled. “Let us go, then.” 

Once upstairs, William looked around and confirmed they were alone in the room. Golden afternoon sunlight spilled through the library’s grand windows, illuminating the high, polished bookcases and plush furniture. 

William turned to Hannibal and tried to maintain composure. 

“I’m not sure where to begin . . . Hannibal, I cannot tell you how deeply I’ve missed you or how much I regret our last conversation.” 

Hannibal looked stunned. “My dear friend, you owe me no apology. I was genuinely glad you were honest with me when you no longer wanted—” 

“I was wrong,” William interrupted, shaking his head, his chest heaving with emotion. “I was frightened. I was a fool. These past months without you, I feel that the color has gone out of my life. I’ve been merely existing, not living.” 

He came forward then and stopped short of touching Hannibal, though he stood close enough to do so. 

“I love you, Hannibal,” he said plainly, as he never had before. “I love you. I should have told you that. I have told you in my head a hundred times since you went away. Perhaps you’ve moved on; I make no assumptions. But I needed to tell you.” 

“Moved on?” came the soft reply from Hannibal’s lips. “How do you suppose . . .” 

Realization crossed his face and he stepped forward, taking William’s hand. “William,” he breathed, “you are the single greatest love I have ever known, or will ever know.” He paused and ran his thumb across William’s cheek, adding more softly, “ _Doubt thou the stars are fire. Never doubt I love._ ” 

William grasped his arm, elated at his words and the beautiful quotation. “I cannot be without you anymore. I don’t care where we go or where we live, so long as I am with you.” 

“You would leave England with me?” Hannibal asked, his voice catching. 

“Tomorrow, if you asked.” 

They took hold of each other and kissed in the quiet library, laughing and wiping away the other’s tears. 

“I wasn’t sure you would speak to me if you came tonight,” Hannibal mused. 

“Ah, darling,” William responded, apologetic, pulling him into a close embrace and breathing the scent he had so dearly missed. 

Just as they stood holding one another, a closet door beside them suddenly sprung open and two bare-headed women came tumbling out. William reflexively backed away from Hannibal, though he knew it was no use—they must have heard every word. He felt the blood drain from his face in terror; they were discovered. There was no way to undo it. 

They both stood in shock, watching as Alana Bloom helped Margot Verger secure her bonnet. 

“What is the meaning of your _hiding_ in—” William stammered in spite of himself, but Margot abruptly put a finger over her lips, directing his attention to the hallway with a sideways glance. 

By the sound of chatter and footsteps, it was suddenly apparent a group had come upstairs on an impromptu tour the house. 

“Quickly, quickly,” Margot instructed Alana, patting her arm, and the two of them hurried over as if on cue. 

Margot stopped next to William, casually resting her hand on his arm, while Alana rushed to stand beside Hannibal. Just as a small crowd emerged in the doorway, the two women erupted in well-rehearsed laugher. Perfectly bewildered, William and Hannibal could only smile along with them. 

Lady Bedelia gave the four of them a quizzical look as she came into sight. 

“Lady Bedelia, you have the most excellent library,” remarked Margot, perfectly courteous. “We came up to admire the view, and William has just shared the most charming story.” 

William went cold, praying no one would ask him to repeat it, as he was certain he had forgotten every joke he’d ever heard. Bedelia only gave a them a sour look in response, and the four of them held their breaths. 

“Lady Alana,” she scolded. “Where is your _bonnet_?” 

Alana feigned shock, placing her hand on her head. “Goodness, I haven’t the slightest— Well, look, here it is after all!” She retrieved it from the floor. “I must need a new ribbon; this one simply refuses to stay tied.” 

Bedelia spared them one last curious glance before she returned to guiding her group down the hall, leaving the four alone again. 

Margot and Alana stepped back to face the two men again, who both stood dreadfully confused. 

“We have a proposition for the two of you,” she began. “It seems it would do you well to take wives, is that not so? As it happens, Alana and myself happen to be looking for two well-suited husbands, as well.” 

William was struck by her words, finally grasping the great stroke of luck that had brought the four of them to this moment. Hannibal seemed to have come to the same realization along with him. 

“However,” she went on in a more serious tone, taking Alana’s arm, “there is one stipulation. You see, my friend is quite dear to me, and I cannot bear to be parted from her. I’m afraid if you do wish to marry us, we must all live in my estate, the four of us together. I simply will not accept any other arrangement.” 

“A small sacrifice to ensure the happiness of your wives,” Alana added, a sparkle in her voice. 

William cupped a hand over his mouth, unsure whether it was a laugh or sob he was trapping in. He looked over at Hannibal, who gave him a warm smile. 

Without hesitation, William moved forward and took a knee in front of Lady Margot, unable to fight his amused smile at the ridiculous formal gesture and the surreal moment, while Hannibal did the same before Lady Alana. The two women laughed at the reaction—a genuine, happy laugh this time, and the wonderful news of their engagements was printed in the next morning’s paper. 

*** 

The double-wedding was held on a crisp autumn day on Verger land, beneath trees bearing bright boughs of crimson and gold leaves. After the grand ceremony, attended by everyone of importance in London, Lady Lecter and Lady Graham walked arm in arm with their new husbands, greeting their guests and admiring the foliage. 

William watched as his wife spoke to a few guests, and he was struck by a sense of responsibility. Though their union existed as part of a unique arrangement, it was not to be a sham. He thought of how many men might have committed murder to trade places with him, coveting either her wealth, her beauty, or both. 

“Margot,” he began, as they passed into the shade of a tall tree. “I want you to know that I do intend to be an exemplary husband and father. Untraditional as our arrangement may be, you should never hesitate to bring to me any concerns or needs. I will see to it that you never have cause to regret this marriage.” 

She gave him a small smile, seemingly surprised at his words, and he felt a bit foolish for having said them. But she responded with a kiss on his cheek and rested her palm on his arm. 

Some space ahead, near the orchard, Hannibal walked with Alana, apple blossoms tumbling down over her wedding dress. They had gone beyond the crowd and stopped to look back, gazing at the other wedded pair huddled in the shade across the way. 

“I’m not certain I could ever properly put into words how grateful we are,” Hannibal said. 

Alana smiled up at him, her teeth showing like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. “There is no need. This is a day I have long dreamt of, and often, at that.” 

“With a painter at your side?” he jested. 

“I can scarcely think of a better match!” 

The two laughed and he brought her delicate hand to his lips. 

Late that evening, after the guests had all gone and the sun had settled into the horizon, the two pairs took to their chambers in a their private wing of the estate, where servants were not permitted unless called. William escorted Margot to her room for good measure, and the two had only been there for the span of a moment when Alana appeared in the doorway. 

“He’s waiting for you,” she said brightly, touching William’s elbow as she passed him. 

As he shut the door behind him, William caught a glimpse two women in a tight embrace, enveloped in the elaborate white lace of their wedding gowns. Funny, he thought as he passed through the quiet corridor, that the times he and Hannibal had talked of others like them, he had only ever imagined other pairs of men. 

He found Hannibal in what was to be their own shared chamber, a beautifully furnished room the size of his own library back home. Hannibal turned from the windows as William entered, and the two seized each other, kissing with fervor. 

“This hardly feels real,” William said, looking at Hannibal and then around the room. “Like some grand dream.” 

“This is far better than anything we ever dreamed,” Hannibal remarked. 

“To be sure,” William agreed, pressing his lips to Hannibal’s once more. “It is you who I pledged my heart to today. You must know that.” 

“And you have mine, as you have from the day I learned your name. I love you, my dear William,” he said, running a thumb across his cheek. “With every breath I breathe, I love you.”


End file.
